


Unfortunate Beginnings

by cywscross



Series: TW Soulmates AUs [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Language, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-17 09:12:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3523703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>‘Not you; you're not the one I want.’</em> </p><p>Those words have been with Stiles for as long as he can remember, an unwanted brand printed over his left ribcage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've edited this so it'll be a little different from the version on tumblr if you've read that one. Like, seriously, if you liked this, you should probably reread it; I've added quite a bit without even meaning to.

 

“Not you; you're not the one I want,” The dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes set in an unfairly attractive face dismisses Stiles with a lingering but ultimately indifferent up-down examination before turning most of his attention back to his drink and his two companions, a young woman who seems both amused and faintly apologetic, and the other – younger – dude who currently redefines brooding.

 

And yeah, the man doesn't know who he is yet, and maybe he prefers female bartenders, but hell, Stiles has spent twenty-two years dreading his first encounter with his soulmate, twenty-two years bracing himself for those words, and they _still_ hurt like a bitch.

 

So it’s really not his fault when he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, scathing and angry and utterly humiliated. “Yeah, well, screw you too, you _bastard_.”

 

And without waiting for any kind of response, Stiles turns on his heel and storms away. He’ll get Erica to switch places with him. He needs to clear his head.

 

* * *

 

“Wow,” Laura drawls. “We always knew your soulmate was going to be pissed off at you the first time you two met but... _wow_. I'm speechless, Uncle Peter.”

 

She’s quite certain that if looks could kill, and if Peter was in any condition to glare in the first place, she’d be buried six feet under by now. As it is, she can smirk in a mix of sympathy, disapproval, and _oh my god I can’t believe you just said that to your soulmate_ all she wants, because right now, Peter’s expression is entirely blank and still in a way that Laura thinks may actually be his _oh fuck_ face. She can’t be sure because Peter’s _never_ been in an _oh fuck_ situation as far as she knows.

 

Just, wow. Eight seconds with his soulmate, and Laura already knows that the kid – and compared to Peter, compared to _Laura_ , he _is_ sort of a kid – is going to be good for Peter Hale. Provided that her uncle can fix his fuck-up first of course, and ouch, to have those words written on the poor guy’s skin since the day he was born. Her uncle’s going to have his work cut out for him but Laura thinks that that’s probably for the best, if only because Peter’s never had to work a day in his life to get anyone to fall over themselves to please him.

 

Beside her, Derek has lightened up for the first time all evening. He even smirks, a little evilly to be honest, probably in response to Peter shanghaiing him into coming to the club tonight to meet some hot lady bartender because _you can’t remain a celibate hermit forever, Nephew,_ and _don’t worry, I’ve already vetted this one, she’s not a psychopathic arsonist_.

 

Laura’s pulled out of her thoughts when a chair abruptly scrapes back, and she watches as Peter rises to his feet, eyes already scanning the general direction of where the mysterious bartender vanished off to.

 

“Do you think he might quit his job just to avoid you now?” Derek asks with a snort, and ah, there’s the glare Laura was looking for, arctic levels of cold, and equally lethal. Even Laura winces a little under that stare. Derek huffs and crosses his arms but ducks his head like an unruly child being scolded.

 

“Enjoy your evening,” Peter’s words are pleasant but his eyes glitter ominously under the dim lights with something cruel and vindictive. His lip curls into a sneer. “Remember to do a background check on anyone Derek tries to get laid with, Laura. We wouldn't want a repeat of last time, now would we? Round Two might just kill us all, and I for one don’t want to die all because my darling nephew can’t keep it in his pants.”

 

Derek flinches and goes three shades paler but Peter’s already gone, striding away with such a commanding get-the-fuck-out-of-my-way aura around him that the crowd automatically parts for him like the Red Sea. Laura has to admire that.

 

Still, she heaves a sigh and pats her brother on the shoulder. Well, there goes that progress, but then, Peter’s like that. One step forward, two steps back, and sometimes, not even _Mom_ knows whether or not Uncle Peter’s ever really forgiven Derek for his teenage mistake with Kate Argent.

 

Laura thinks he has for the most part, but at the same time, well, Peter’s always been able to nurse a grudge like nobody’s business. The whole family managed to escape that fire seven years ago but only thanks to Peter, who returned home early from work, saw the beginnings of the blaze, and dove right in anyway, hauling first the children out of the burning building, and then dragging even the adults out as well, until the entire family was coughing and gasping and crying on the front lawn. _Peter_ almost didn't make it out, using the last of his strength to shove his older sister through the crumbling living room window right before part of the ceiling collapsed on his legs and pinned him there like a mounted butterfly, easy prey for the flames that were devouring their family estate.

 

According to their mother, by the time the fire trucks and ambulances arrived, their house was mostly gone, their mom was heaving her screaming brother away from the fire as best she could while still partially under the influence of the sleeping gas that Kate flooded their home with, and all of them – sans Laura and Derek who were at work and at school respectively at the time, and therefore blissfully ignorant of the near miss – would've been dead and buried under the remains of their home if it wasn't for Peter.

 

To this day, her uncle still has the burn scars marring parts of his body to show for his heroics, but no one else – aside from some smoke inhalation and the after-effects of a strong sleeping gas – was hurt in the end, and Laura has never seen her mother cry as much as when Peter woke up in the hospital after surgery for his burns and his damaged legs, and then a two-year coma after that.

 

Derek couldn't look anybody in the eye for just as long. He couldn't look Peter in the eye for even longer, especially since their uncle tended to bring up the incident every so often, more so at the beginning than now. He was snappy and acerbic with everyone during the long, difficult hours of physiotherapy he had to go through to get back on his feet after the coma, and nobody could blame him for it. He may have survived the fire, but something about that incident broke a part of him all the same, made him harder, harsher, quicker to anger, and unlike his injuries, those jagged edges never truly healed. He’s gotten better – better overall and even better at _pretending_ to be better – but everyone is well aware that he’ll never be the same again.

 

And in the end, all they could do was keep Peter and Derek apart, and while their relationship has mended since then, it will probably never be the same as before the fire when Derek was still Peter’s favourite nephew.

 

Their uncle is a lot of things, some bad, some good, but he loves their family more than anything, no matter the pranks and tricks he pulls behind their backs, or even the barbed insults and caustic remarks and constant needling jabs. And anyone – even one of their own, _especially_ one of their own – who would dare attack them, intentionally or otherwise, will always find themselves on Peter’s shit list.

 

Like Kate. The police didn't catch her and her father until almost a year after Peter woke up, and Peter – good old lawyer Uncle Peter – drowned her under a mountain of life sentences, and then proceeded to make sure Gerard Argent got the chair for good measure.

 

Peter very rarely forgives, and he never, _ever_ forgets. Derek can personally attest to that.

 

Laura has to wonder if his soulmate is just as stubborn. Probably has to be to be a match for Peter. And despite everything, she does hope it works out. No matter what front her uncle puts up, or how many flings or one-night stands he goes through, she knows that a part of him has been waiting for his soulmate for a very long time.

 

* * *

 

Fifteen hours later, Stiles exits his last class still feeling half-zombie. He tossed and turned in bed until five in the morning, and then he woke up too late to grab his usual Starbucks before his eight-thirty lecture. And he _still_ can’t stop thinking about what’s-his-face with the too pretty blue eyes.

 

Fuck his life.

 

He stumbles back to his dorm, nose buried in one of many old texts that he’s managed to dig up for his mythology paper. He doesn't notice the figure leaning beside the door to his room until it’s too late to duck behind someone or flee.

 

“Hello, Stiles. Finished class for the day?”

 

The greeting is silkily delivered and familiar, like the one delivering them has said it to him before multiple times.

 

Stiles freezes, head still bowed, the words on the page suddenly making about as much sense as they would in Latin. Wait, no, that’s a bad comparison because he understands Latin, so... German. As they would in German.

 

He looks up. And then promptly flails and drops his books ( _hopefully, the library never finds out_ ) and several loose handouts onto the ground as he leaps back with a bitten off yelp.

 

What’s-his-face – commandeering a patch of wall, legs crossed at the ankles – smirks, infuriatingly handsome in jeans and a black v-neck rolled up at the sleeves.

 

“What are you- How are you even here?!” Stiles pointedly _does not_ shriek. Nevertheless, several other dorm rooms open, and a scatter of heads pop out to peer at them curiously.

 

Stiles is at the very end of one hall so he only has to crane his head around to pin every one of those nosy gossipers a mind-your-own-business glower. Swiftly, every head withdraws again, and all the doors slam shut. They all know the policy – good mood!Stiles is friendly enough, funny in a sometimes nerdy, mostly sarcastic way, and he won’t go after you with a shiv if you treat his friends right. All in all, he’s pretty easy to get along with. Bad mood!Stiles on the other hand – obey, do not question, and avoid unless absolutely necessary if you don’t want him verbally ripping you a new one in broad daylight in the middle of campus by loudly broadcasting some mortifying secret that he really shouldn't know about you but does anyway.

 

Then of course, there’s-

 

“Hey, that guy was asking about you earlier, Stiles! Is that your soulm-”

 

“Greenberg, disappear!” Stiles barks out, and as if on cue, a hand – the moron’s roommate – reaches out from behind Greenberg, hauls the idiot back inside and shuts the door after them, leaving the hallway blessedly empty.

 

Stiles scoffs. What he did to deserve sharing a floor with Greenberg, he’ll never know.

 

And then he remembers who’s standing only a few feet in front of him, and everything descends to painfully awkward once again. For a moment, Stiles just sort of stares at some middle-distance between himself and his soulmate, and then he crouches down and starts picking up his books.

 

He’s very much aware of the eyes drilling holes into him. Stiles does his level best to ignore it.

 

Thankfully, none of the spines have been damaged, and he breathes a sigh of relief upon flipping through the last tome and finding none of the pages any more yellowed and wrinkly than before.

 

Hands appear in his line of sight and help him gather up the remaining papers. Stiles’ jaw clenches as they both rise to their full height again but – after snatching back the papers that are offered to him – he forces out a reluctant, “Thanks.”

 

He shoulders past the man – _god, he still doesn't know the guy’s name_ – and gets to work juggling his belongings in one hand while unlocking his door with the other. It’s easier than it sounds; he’s done it a million times.

 

“You going to invite me in?”

 

Stiles’ hand spasms around the doorknob before he nails on a tight smile and turns to face Blue-Eyes.

 

“Sorry, I don’t think I have quite the assets you're looking for,” He gestures at his chest. “And I'm not in the habit of inviting stalkers into my room either.” He turns away. “Erica or Braeden will be working the night shift this evening. I’m sure either one will be happy to fulfill your needs.”

 

Neither of them has found their soulmates yet, and both tend to sleep around a bit, just for fun.

 

He’s about to step into safety when a hand grabs him by the crook of his elbow, not yanking him around or anything but simply holding him there. Stiles jerks away anyway, straightening to his full height and clutching his books to his chest as he whirls to glare at the older man. It’s almost gratifying to see that he has about an inch and a half on his soulmate.

 

Who is glaring right back even though his lips are set into a thin smile of his own.

 

“I was setting someone up for my nephew,” Blue-Eyes all but growls back, and okay, that’s weird, a thirty-something-year-old man _setting someone up_ for his _nephew_ – If anything, shouldn't it be the other way around? – but alright, Stiles can roll with that.

 

“What I said,” Peter crowds a step closer as if that will help make Stiles believe him. “It wasn't directed at you, not personally.”

 

Stiles swallows hard, fingers crumpling a few of his handouts in a white-knuckled grip. Well, fine, that makes sense, if it’s true, but-

_Not you; you're not the one I want._

 

What does Stiles have in common with someone like this guy anyway? Blue-Eyes’ clothes may be fairly simple but they look expensive, he practically oozes confidence in everything he does from what Stiles has seen in even just the short time they've interacted, and he must be pretty smart to be able to track Stiles down to his _dorm room_ in such a short period of time because Stiles knows that the club doesn't have his personal information beyond a name and a phone number, much less be willing to give any of it out to random strangers. Stiles on the other hand is just a poor college student, and he’s damn clever if he does say so himself but-

 

Twenty-two years of staring at clear-cut evidence that your soulmate doesn't think much of you at all doesn't exactly do wonders for your self-esteem. Those who caught a glimpse of Stiles’ soulmate mark when he was growing up never lost their pity for him.

 

Stiles has most likely stayed silent for too long but Blue-Eyes is apparently patient too because he hasn't moved from his spot in front of Stiles, hasn't so much as batted an eye. There’s something tense in his expression though, strained, and upon closer observation, Stiles realizes that the guy isn’t anywhere near as unconcerned as he first thought. He looks laidback, with his hands in his pockets, and his features almost unsettlingly calm, but the line of his shoulders is stiff, and he watches Stiles so closely that it’s like he thinks that Stiles will disappear if he so much as blinks.

 

Stiles clears his throat and glances to the side. “Um, okay, awesome.” He inhales carefully. “Whatever, dude, not like I cared.”

 

He glances back, flushing when he sees the skeptically raised eyebrows directed at him.

 

Well, his soulmate is still here. The fact that he tracked him down at all has to mean something, right? Otherwise, the guy wouldn't have bothered.

 

And a part of Stiles – no matter how unwanted the words – _does_ want a soulmate. _His_ soulmate. He’s only got the one, and that one is standing here right now.

 

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and all that jazz. Go Ben Franklin.

 

“So, uh-” He hasn't actually thought about how he would go about this. Most of his imagined scenarios all pretty much end with his soulmate walking away. “What- What’s your name?” He considers this before tacking on dryly, “Since you already know mine and all.”

 

And just like that, the tension melts away, and Stiles could swear he catches a flicker of bone-deep relief flitting across Blue-Eyes’ face before it’s tucked away again. A charming smile – summoned with the ease of long practice – replaces it, and his gaze visibly warms.

 

“Peter,” The man tells him. “Peter Hale. I’d shake your hand but...” He trails off with a glance at the stack of books in Stiles’ arms. “You have an interest in mythology?”

 

Stiles involuntarily brightens. “Love it. That and history. I like researching genealogies and tracing them back to their original roots before-”

 

He rambles on a bit more, mouth running per usual before abruptly cutting himself off because, you know, TMI for first – second – time encounters, but Peter’s smiling faintly at him, eyes crinkling at the corners, and when Stiles stops, he jumps in with, “If you're not busy right now, we could go for coffee and you could tell me some more?” He pauses, and then adds, “I'm interested in mythology myself, and my family has a library with an entire section dedicated to the subject, filled with rare tomes passed down from generation to generation. If you want, I could lend you some to read.”

 

Stiles melts just a little but he rallies somewhat indignantly, “Are you bribing me?”

 

Peter smirks, all arrogant superiority and pleased smugness. It’s an infuriatingly endearing expression for some reason despite the fact that on anyone else – _coughJacksoncough_ – Stiles wouldn't be able to stand it.

 

“Of course,” Peter says at once. “I’ve read a few of the history papers you’ve published, particularly the ones on Minoan culture and its lasting impacts on other civilizations. The research you put in was incredibly thorough, and your theories showed a very unique perspective. Knowing even that much, I can hardly expect to woo such a brilliant mind without throwing in a library, can I?”

 

Stiles turns away sharply, this time to hide a rising blush and a smile of his own. Damn this bastard; that’s not the typical quip you’d expect to hear, and he actually managed to make it sound perfectly sincere too despite the blatant implication of a ridiculous amount of stalking between last night and now that comes with it.

 

He’s never had _anyone_ broach the topics of his papers before outside of schoolwork.

 

He turns back once he’s fixed his expression into something less flattered and more determinedly unimpressed. “I suppose we can start with coffee, you creep. You're paying.”

 

Peter grins, triumphant and satisfied like this was the only outcome he ever expected when he came here today, and it lights up his eyes to a brilliant summer sky blue. Stiles huffs to himself even as he deposits his things on the foot of his bed inside his dorm room.

 

“Do you study history?” He enquires, giving Peter a speculative look.

 

Peter shakes his head. “I took a few history courses when I went to university but most of what I know is from books I’ve read in my spare time. I’m a lawyer actually.”

 

Stiles’ eyebrows rise as he steps back out to join Peter in the hallway again, shutting the door behind him. He regards the man for a long moment before it clicks. “Peter _Hale_. From Beacon Hills.”

 

What kind of fucked up coincidence is this?

 

Nothing visibly changes but Stiles gets the impression of an invisible wall slamming down anyway when Peter’s expression grows unnaturally fixed.

 

“Yes,” Peter’s smile is entirely too placid to be authentic.

 

Stiles puts up his hands. “No worries, dude, I’m not gonna ask. I totally get it.”

 

Peter’s eyes darken with something dangerous for a split second, and for some reason, it makes Stiles _relax_ of all things. Maybe it’s because this part of his soulmate is raw and uncontrolled, and as genuine as his charismatic flirting and obvious interest in Stiles were, the current Peter seems far more real to Stiles than the smoothly charming – if also slightly creepy – version was, and that – more than anything else – is what puts him at ease.

 

Stiles’ old therapist would have a field day with that thought.

 

“Do you?” Peter asks softly, and there’s a hint of a sneer in his voice, like he’s one wrong word away from picking a fight.

 

Stiles rolls his shoulders in a deliberately casual shrug. “Yeah.” His throat tightens. His jaw works. “There were twelve cops who died in the line of fire when Kate and Gerard were apprehended – the Beacon Hills Sheriff and four of his deputies were five of them. ...The Sheriff was my dad, one of the deputies was my uncle, another was my brother, and the last two were family friends who took turns babysitting me when I was a kid.”

 

He smiles, and it’s as phony as the blank one on Peter’s face. “So yeah, you could say I know a thing or two about it.”

 

A heavy silence follows. Stiles glares off to the side. This went downhill fast.

 

“...Your surname is Nowak,” Peter points out. When Stiles glances back at him, his posture is no longer confrontational but his gaze is still as intense as before.

 

“My mom’s maiden name,” Stiles explains curtly. He has no idea why he keeps talking. He’s actually said more about his past in the last five minutes than he did in the first ten sessions with his therapist. “My aunt – her sister – took me in after- after. And we both got tired of people whispering about us and giving us their condolences every time they heard our surnames.”

 

Until his aunt decided that she was tired of _life_ in general as well and promptly followed her husband and child to the grave. Then it was just Stiles left.

 

But that doesn't matter right now.

 

“You think my parents actually named me Stiles Stilinski?” He adds with a snort.

 

Peter inclines his head, conceding the point. Neither of them speaks for another bout of stilted silence.

 

Stiles wonders if he should bow out of their coffee date. He thinks it would probably be less awkward. Because seriously, honest to god, how many other soulmates manage to stumble straight into forbidden territory during their very first conversation? If the universe is trying to send them some sort of message to BAIL NOW WE MADE A MISTAKE PAIRING YOU TWO TOGETHER, it’s succeeding.

 

But, as if reading his mind, Peter shuffles a step forward and restates, quiet and measured and almost hopeful, “I would still like to take you out for coffee, if you're up for it.”

 

It’s not quite an apology, but Stiles doesn't want one anyway. Technically, he was the one who brought up the touchy subject in the first place.

 

He watches Peter watch him. The air between them eases just a little, enough to breathe and power through.

 

If he wants.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles finds himself nodding, and surprisingly, it’s not even a lie. “I’d... I’d like that.”

 

And then he hesitates because there is one thing he wants before he takes a headfirst dive into whatever the hell this is going to be. “Um... could I- see your...?”

 

Peter understands immediately, and without a word, he reaches up and tugs down the collar of his v-neck until the beginning swell of his left pectoral – _and goddamn it, does this asshole have to have what looks to be the body of a god as well_ – is revealed, along with the words Stiles spat at him yesterday night.

 

Stiles blinks. “Guess you learned your swearwords early, huh?”

 

Peter chuckles, and like magic, the sound soothes the remaining apprehension sitting in Stiles’ gut.

 

“My parents were appropriately scandalized,” Peter reveals wryly. “And then appropriately resigned when I started scandalizing the neighbours.”

 

Stiles snorts with laughter. Even from the little he’s observed of Peter, he can just imagine.

 

“And... you?” Peter enquires as he adjusts his shirt. Stiles’ shoulders automatically hunch, and then he forces himself to un-hunch.

 

“You don’t have to,” Peter relents nonchalantly. “It isn’t a trade.”

 

Stiles frowns and determinedly reaches for the hems of his shirts, lifting them until the pale mole-dotted skin of his torso is visible.

 

Peter’s hand extends, eyes riveted on the black lettering spilling down the ladder of Stiles’ left ribs, but his fingers stop an inch away, only hovering instead of actually touching.

 

Stiles shifts nervously, watching the way Peter’s expression flattens before the man looks away, jaw flexing.

 

Stiles hastily pulls his shirts back down, busying himself with shrugging them back in place.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

Stiles fiddles with the zipper of his sweater but – after a long second of absorbing that quiet apology – he steels himself and looks up again. He twitches when Peter taps a finger against his side, once.

 

“One day,” The man tells him, and the words are solid with promise. “I’ll make you forget those even exist.”

 

Stiles reddens again, and jeez, that’s three times in ten minutes, which is so not cool. He scrubs a hand through his hair before squaring his shoulders and giving Peter a pointed look. “Well then, you can start with coffee. For a week.”

 

Peter’s features smooth out, and when he slips a hand behind Stiles to rest against the small of his back, Stiles doesn't pull away. Gotta start somewhere, and... this is okay.

 

“For as long as you want,” Peter corrects.

 

Stiles side-eyes him as they start down the hallway. “I drink a lot of coffee.”

 

Peter hums. “Oh good; I have a lot of money.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. Oh boy, he was right, which means they’ll probably have to have the I-can-pay-for-myself conversation sometime in the foreseeable future.

 

Although paying for all his coffee is one thing Stiles won’t ever complain about.

 

One of the doors open. Greenberg’s head pokes out curiously because his stupidity has always outweighed his common sense. Stiles rolls his eyes again, hard enough to nearly strain himself, before fixing his dorm mate with a – mostly – fake but still convincing I’m-still-pissed-so-fuck-off look.

 

Greenberg gulps and beats a hasty retreat.

 

Beside him, Peter makes an amused noise at the back of his throat. “Why Stiles, do you rule this floor? Or the building?”

 

The building actually, but- “I don’t _rule_ anything, you drama queen!” Stiles says defensively. Peter’s smirk only grows. Stiles grumbles under his breath before amending, “They know not to bother me when I'm in a bad mood. Because of reasons, ranging from embarrassing to horrifying. For them.”

 

Peter laughs outright, the sound rich with delight, and the hand at Stiles’ back snakes around to slide around to clasp his opposite hip instead.

 

“Oh Stiles,” The man purrs. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

 

Stiles glances at his soulmate. Peter just smirks back, something like a dare edging his expression even as his arm tightens around Stiles’ waist.

 

Stiles narrows his eyes and lets himself relax into the possessive grip. Peter’s smirk softens into a smile, and Stiles can’t tear his eyes away for a moment, mesmerized.

 

It’s terrifying.

 

It’s thrilling.

 

Perhaps the universe wasn't completely stoned when it paired them together with such a shitty beginning after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	2. Chapter 2

 

Peter’s never believed in luck, good or bad.  He believes in making the most of the hands life deals you, and if that means stacking the deck in his favour before those hands are ever even dealt, well, he’s always excelled at magic tricks and counting cards.

 

Even the fire and his consequent injuries weren't bad luck, just the workings of a psychopath and an idiot.  The former’s rotting in jail; the latter...

 

Sometimes, he thinks he’s made the boy pay enough.  It was an accident after all.  _He made a mistake, Peter,_ as Talia would beg.  _Stop holding it over his head.  He’ll never move on like this._

 

Other times though, when Peter wakes up on winter mornings or rainy days and has to take ten minutes to get out of bed or can’t get out of bed at all because his legs are in too much pain, or when someone overcooks something in the kitchen and he accidentally wanders in at that exact moment, only to have to turn right around and leave again because all he’ll be able to smell is his own roasting flesh, he can’t even _imagine_ ever forgiving Derek.

 

It’s petty of him, perhaps.  But life’s made him bitter.  Jaded.  And after waking up from his coma, after clawing his way back to his feet, after he put Kate in prison and Gerard in the chair, he promptly found himself without a purpose.  He still works as a lawyer, but it’s no longer as fun as he remembers it to be.  He still loves his family, but he’s always been the outsider looking in, and it’s only gotten worse because they _bore_ him now, even more than they did before the fire.  If he spends too long in their presence, he’ll start picking at their weaknesses, pushing and prodding their buttons just to see how far he can cut into their vulnerable insides until they snap back at him or break.  He only does it because they’re all so disgustingly more tolerant of him nowadays, especially Talia who’ll let him do just about anything he wants these days without any of her old suspicion or intolerance for his antics, won’t even tell him to shut up anymore unless he drives her oldest son to the point of near tears, as if saving them from the fire was what finally granted him his sister’s lenience and trust.

 

As if being family was never enough for that until he literally almost died for them.

 

He moved out of Beacon Hills at the very first opportunity.  The moment he received news that Gerard was executed and Kate was settled in maximum-security, he packed his bags and left.  Moved to Stanford on a whim, close to his hometown but not too close, and he only ever returns now during holidays.  It’s better that way for everyone involved.

 

He still found himself thoroughly bored though, for years now.  He goes through the motions – attends court hearings, bails his clients out of trouble, fields phone calls from his siblings and in-laws, suffers through visits from his nieces and nephews, chips away at Derek’s self-esteem, works on his frustratingly depleted book collection, even covers up his scars when Chris drops by to moan about his estranged daughter – but that’s all they are nowadays, just motions.  He finds very little joy in any of it, and it probably says something terrible about his psyche that he finds needling Derek and being a part-time hermit surrounded by nothing but books to be his favourite activities these days.

 

Well, until now anyway.

 

Sitting at the counter of the bar of the same club he’s been frequenting on and off whenever he feels like going out for a drink and getting lost in a crowd, Peter idly swirls the glass of amber liquid in his right hand as his gaze tracks the lithe figure currently serving another customer, and he wonders if maybe luck does exist after all.

 

If he’s being honest, he never thought he’d find his soulmate.  He’s thirty-six for god’s sakes; thirty-four if he doesn't count those two years he spent stuck in a hospital bed, but either way, statistics say that most people who don’t find their soulmates by the time they hit thirty probably won’t.  Peter doesn't know why; it isn’t as if the average kid travels a whole lot and is in the perfect position to meet a wide variety of people, but it is what it is, and the world works in mysterious ways.  Some people even think that soulmates instinctively gravitate toward each other early on, or that they’re naturally born under circumstances where they would meet early on, but if that’s true, Peter has no idea how he and Stiles can live in the same town for years and still never meet each other until they’re not even _in that town_ anymore.  You’d think Peter would have been given some heavenly message regarding his soulmate the very day Stiles was born in good old Beacon Hills.

 

And even disregarding that, well, what kind of soul would be able to match Peter’s?  He isn’t exactly what people would call parents-approved or even _public_ -approved half the time.  People generally learn to avoid him sooner or later, usually after he’s manipulated them in some way and they realize that he’s no angel.  He isn’t even your average fucked up but relatively decent human being.  It’s why he has so many clients; he knows how to uncover and – more importantly – exploit weaknesses like nobody’s business, he has no qualms about doing it, and ever since he passed his bar exam with flying colours over ten years ago, he’s only ever lost two cases in his entire career.

 

Bottom line – he isn’t a good man and he knows it.  Worse, he doesn't care.  He likes who he is, and if Talia hasn't been able to ‘make him a better person’ in all the years they’ve known each other, the very notion that anyone else could is downright laughable.

 

A soulmate is supposed to complete you.  They’re a perfect fit, your other half, someone who will understand you and trust you and love you just the way you are.

 

Peter’s been gagging over that definition since he was a teenager.  His favourite game back then – and even after he entered college – was figuring out soulmate pairs before the soulmates themselves did, and then, if they were the revolting ‘saving themselves for their other half’ type, he’d seduce and sleep with one of them just so he could see the dismay and guilt on their face the morning after.  If he timed it right, he’d even be there when they finally met their soulmate.

 

Talia found out what he was doing, and she disapproved (what else is new?) but she couldn't exactly stop him, and then the fire happened, left its mark on his body, and he all but stopped sleeping around altogether after that, always feeling too vulnerable ( _too ashamed_ ) to really bare himself to strangers as intimately as even a meaningless romp in the sheets would.  People never fail to blanch even just _looking_ at his scars; wanting to touch him is positively comical.

 

Before the fire however, Talia did accuse him of being jealous, and maybe he was, just a little, no matter how much he scoffed every time.  His family all found their soulmates at an early age.  His sister met Nathan in middle school at thirteen and knew they’d be forever.  His brother Julian was courting Charlotte since senior high when she transferred in, and they were engaged the moment they were legal.  Their son Jasper brought Finnian home at twenty-three and admitted they’d been dating for four years.  Laura literally crashed into Bastien at nineteen when she rear-ended him on the highway, and she still came home glowing with elation; they were married three years later.  And everyone and their grandma followed Cora and Isaac’s epic little love story like their favourite soap opera.

 

Only Peter never found his match, and by the time he graduated high school, he’d shoved every tiny bit of disappointment into a box and shunted it to the back of his mind.  By the time he graduated law school, he didn't even care anymore.  After all, he was a perfectly successful lawyer without a soulmate, and being unattached definitely had its perks.

 

So imagine his shock when – after all these years – he inadvertently insulted a certain amber-eyed bartender, only to get cussed out in return by the very words etched on his skin, words he gave up on ever hearing despite the fact that people quite often wanted to wring his neck at one point or another.

 

It wasn't like he didn't appreciate the view when Stiles approached them – all pale skin and long limbs, with amber eyes and tousled hair that Peter impulsively – and uncharacteristically – wanted to run his fingers through, not to mention those _lips_ would look perfect kiss-swollen or wrapped around his cock.  He’s bedded both men and women who didn't look half as nice, and he’s actually fairly picky about his partners no matter what the rest of his family think of his trysts.

 

But Derek was straight, and yesterday night was one of the few occasions when Peter could look at his nephew without feeling the ache in his legs and choking on vitriol.  His sister’s two eldest children were visiting him for the week, and – not wanting them in his apartment anymore than necessary – he decided to take them out and hopefully lose them for a couple nights, Laura to the dance floor, and Derek to a pretty face.  One of the regular bartenders – Braeden – even has a sharp wit and a level head to go with her looks, and a not-so-legal background check turned up nothing more dangerous than a gun license and a black belt in martial arts.

 

Then of course, he went and shut his soulmate down without even meaning to, and when he belatedly rushed after the boy but came up empty, Peter hadn't felt such a flood of irrational, overwhelming panic since the day he went home to a burning building.

 

Still, he managed to pull himself together long enough to weasel some basic information out of the club’s other employees, and a search into the local university’s database did the rest.

 

He didn't sleep a wink the entire night, first caught up in the stunned realization that _he’s found his soulmate_ , and then caught up in said soulmate’s history papers and short stories based on obscure myths all published and posted on the internet.

 

Figures they would share a love of literature.

 

Peter will never admit it but he was on campus by seven the very next morning, feeling positively jittery with nerves and caffeine.  It took him a while to find the correct dorm building, and by the time he found it, along with the right floor and the right room, Stiles was already gone, presumably to class.  The rest of the morning and part the afternoon was spent lurking around and inside the building.  Stiles’ neighbours all gave him cursory inquisitive looks, and some of them were very helpful with pointing him towards Stiles’ dorm room in the first place, but most didn’t ask questions, and it made Peter wonder if his soulmate got visits from random strangers a lot.

 

Not surprisingly, the idea didn’t sit well with him, but it might not even be true so Peter shunted the thought to the back of his mind to puzzle over at another time.

 

He didn’t even leave for lunch, not wanting to miss Stiles in case the boy returned around noon, but it wasn’t until after two that Stiles finally came back, arms weighed down with books, barely noticing anything else around him as he shuffled down the corridor, and looking just as delicious in plaid and jeans as he did in his part-time job’s white dress shirt and black pants under the dim lights of the night club.

 

Peter took a few precious seconds just to drink in the sight of the boy before calling out to draw his soulmate’s attention, and he very nearly panicked again when it seemed – for one damning moment – as if Stiles wouldn’t even give him a chance to explain himself, a chance to make _something_ of their soul bond, and Peter couldn’t even blame him for it.  Not when the first words out of his mouth were so carelessly cruel.

 

Even now, Peter can’t begin to imagine what it must have been like to know – from the minute Stiles could read the writing on his own skin – that Stiles’ own soulmate apparently wouldn’t want anything to do with him.  He was probably mocked about it at school if other kids found out, and he must have had to look himself in the mirror day after day at the condemnatory proof on his body that told him there was something _wrong_ with him in his soulmate’s eyes – that he wasn’t _good enough_ – until he simply _couldn’t_ look anymore, and that’s-

 

Peter plunks his drink down on the bar counter harder than he means to.  There’s nothing he can do about it now.  What’s done is done, and at least he still has a chance.  At least Stiles is willing to give him that much, and Peter can be patient.  Stiles allowed him to take him out for coffee yesterday and earlier today, and they had a pleasant – if somewhat cautious, especially on Stiles’ part – conversation in the few hours they’d spent together, getting to know each other while still sticking to safer topics like school for Stiles and work for Peter, but Peter isn’t so naïve as to believe that a mere handful of hours was enough to wipe away all the doubts and insecurities that have had twenty-two years to hammer themselves a home in Stiles’ head.

 

Earning Stiles’ trust to begin with will take time, so it’s fortunate Peter is practically made of time these days.  His reputation in court sends a lot of wealthy clients his way, so he could retire right now and still live comfortably off his own bank accounts for the remainder of his life without ever touching another cent of his family’s money.  With that in mind, cases aren’t nearly as important to him as Stiles now is.

 

And if things between them work out the way all soulmates hope they do ( _please let them work out_ , he thinkshopesprays, and isn’t that irony for you, when Peter spent the majority of his youth scoffing at the very concept of soulmates), then Peter will have the rest of their lives to fulfill the promise he made to Stiles yesterday afternoon.

 

What are the odds though, that they would both be from Beacon Hills, and they would both be victims of the Argent case?

 

Peter’s never believed in fate or destiny or anything of the sort despite the fact that one of the human race’s fundamental laws of life is pretty much based on exactly that, but now he has to wonder.

 

He lost a part of himself in that fire, and he would bet his life savings that Stiles lost part of himself in the aftermath of most of his family’s deaths.

 

So if anyone could understand the dark, bitter thoughts that Peter drowns in these days from time to time, it would probably be Stiles.  And maybe, maybe Stiles has some of those thoughts himself, ugly, poisonous, strangling thoughts that creep up on him in the dead of night or at odd moments of the day when something completely irrelevant – or entirely relevant – triggers them out of the blue, and that, well, that, Peter would be able to understand, and perhaps he would even be able to provide comfort and vice-versa.

 

But. 

 

He’s getting ahead of himself.

 

They’ve known each other for all of two days.  They may not even work out.  Some soulmates don’t, for all that they’re supposed to be the perfect match.  Getting his hopes up would be foolish ( _but they’re already goddamn up, they have been since their unfortunate beginning two nights ago, and if this ends in heartbreak and loss and grief, he’ll have no one to blame but himself_ ).

 

“Hey there,” A throaty voice purrs, and Peter tears his eyes away from Stiles for a second to take in the blonde bombshell of a bartender standing in front of him behind the counter, a brazen smirk on her young face, and a neckline low enough to make men drool.  She leans forward, her stance about as provocative as physically possible without actually being a stripper or a prostitute.  “You’ve been sitting alone in this corner for a while now; you must be bored.  Is there anything I can do to liven up your night?”

 

Her smirk widens, and she leans even closer.  Her perfume tickles Peter’s nose, and her breasts press lightly against the arm that Peter has resting on the table.  “We employees live to serve after all.”

 

Peter offers a polite smile even as he shifts away, dropping his arm into his lap and tipping his glass at her.  “No thank you; I’m only here for a drink.”

 

He glances over at Stiles.  Still there.  The boy’s had to duck out of his line of sight a few times over the course of the evening, and it makes Peter absurdly antsy whenever that happens.

 

“You sure?”  The blonde pushes insistently, and Peter has to bite back an annoyed sigh when she shifts again so that she’s practically lying on top of the counter.  Peter would give her kudos for making the move look entirely natural and sexy if she isn’t also invading his personal space, but she is, far too much at that, and Peter’s knuckles turn white from the grip he has on his glass of whiskey.

 

Sometimes, he can’t stand being in such close proximity with someone.

 

“I’m quite sure,” Peter interjects before she can add anything else, and he hopes that the curt brush-off will discourage any further flirting, but all it achieves is a briefly annoyed look before an exaggerated pout replaces it.

 

“You’re not looking for any company at all?  I could-”

 

“Erica.”

 

They both look up, the blonde with startled eyes, Peter with a scathing insult three seconds from leaving his lips.  The girl doesn’t know how lucky she is that Stiles has chosen this moment to interrupt.

 

Speaking of whom, Stiles is here now, expression flat and unimpressed even when the seductive edge seeps out of the blonde’s – Erica’s – features, leaving something more genuine behind.

 

“Aw Batman, don’t look like that,” Erica sulks, sliding back to stand more squarely on her feet again.  “I was just testing him.”  Peter gets a sideways appraising look, followed by another smirk.  “He passes the first round at least.  Didn’t focus on these-” She gestures at her breasts, rocking back on her heels to make them bounce a little.  “-at all.”

 

Peter arches an eyebrow.  One of Stiles’ friends then?

 

“Erica,” Stiles repeats, tone somewhere between exasperated and annoyed.  “Stop bothering him.  I don’t need anybody ‘testing’ my soulmate.”

 

An involuntary thread of pleasure thrums through Peter when Stiles says that so easily, throws out _my soulmate_ into the open without so much as a hitch that Peter would think Stiles’ reservations about him and their new relationship have disappeared entirely if it isn’t for the brief flicker of the boy’s eyes darting over to him, like he’s checking for permission to call Peter what he is.

 

Peter is quick to offer a smile for Stiles, pushing all the confidence and reassurance that he possibly can to the forefront.  Something brightens in Stiles’ eyes in response even as his gaze flits back to pin Erica with a pointed look.

 

Erica huff and pushes away from the counter.  “Okay, okay, I’m going.  I’m just looking out for you, you know.”

 

She glances at Peter once more, and even though she doesn’t say anything, the warning in her expression paints an ominous picture across her face, especially when compared to all that earlier flirting.  And then she’s sauntering off back to whatever section of the club she’s responsible for, pausing only long enough to plant a smacking kiss on Stiles’ cheek before finally leaving Peter relatively alone with Stiles instead.

 

“…Friend of yours?”  Peter enquires lightly after they’ve both watched her go.

 

“Sorry about that,” Stiles grins somewhat ruefully, scrubbing at the lipstick stain on his cheek with a wrinkled nose as he draws closer to stand in front of Peter where Erica was seconds ago.  “Erica’s one of my besties; we’ve known each other since kindergarten, and she can be a bit overprotective when it comes to- um-”

 

He taps his ribs once, smiling awkwardly at Peter before hurrying on.  “I had to give her something when I pushed the rest of my shift on her the night I met you, and it’s never a good idea to lie to Erica anyway, so.”

 

He breaks off and shrugs, looking mildly discomfited as the memory of their awful first meeting creeps over the both of them again, and for a moment, only the pounding beat of the music and the chattering din of the crowd can be heard between them.

 

“Well, I should get back to work,” Stiles tells him after clearing his throat.  “You don’t have to stay, you know.  It has to be boring, just sitting here watching me the entire night.  I mean, wouldn’t you rather spend your time with your niece and nephew?  You said they were visiting.”

 

Peter can’t help the harsh scoff of laughter that escapes him, but he’s fast to recover with, “I assure you, Stiles, there is nothing I would rather be doing right now than keeping you company here.”  He gives the boy an exaggerated up-down leer of appreciation.  “There’s certainly no shortage of incentive.”

 

It’s hard to tell if Stiles is blushing with the lighting being what it is but the boy does snort with genuine amusement, and some of the tension melts from his frame.

 

“You’re so creepy,” Stiles informs him dryly, but there’s an underscore of tentative fondness that has Peter hiding a delighted grin.  “If you were aiming for charming, you totally missed.”

 

He tilts his head, and his expression sobers as he considers Peter for a long second.  Peter wonders what he sees, if he can sense the lingering edge of bitterness that Peter’s had to suppress at the mention of his family.

 

 _Don’t ask_ , Peter pleads in his head even as he smirks and cocks a challenging eyebrow.  _I don’t want to talk about it.  Don’t ask.  You can’t ask that yet._

 

And maybe Peter should add mind-reading to the list he’s been mentally compiling of Stiles’ capabilities, because in the end, the boy doesn’t say anything, returning to work and sneaking Peter a free drink in-between, but half an hour later, when his shift comes to an end and they both step out of the club and into the cool night air, it’s Stiles who shuffles closer to Peter first so that their shoulders brush, and it feels a lot like comfort even without a single word exchanged between them.

 

Peter glances at him out of the corner of his eye, watching as Stiles tips his head back and inhales a deep breath, mussed hair fluttering in the breeze, sweat still glistening faintly at his temples from hours of bartending in the club’s vibrant atmosphere.  He looks up at the endless expanse of sky, and the glow of the nearby streetlamps make his eyes glimmer like distant starlight.

 

Peter’s reaching for him before he makes a conscious decision to do so, fingers grazing fingers first, and then – when the boy doesn’t pull away – taking Stiles’ hand entirely.

 

It’s a sickeningly sweet gesture.  Probably too intimate for right now.  Peter doesn’t know what he’s doing, but suddenly, they’re walking down the street, not another soul in sight, close enough to bask in each other’s body heat, and in that moment, he sees his life stretch out ahead with Stiles always at his side, and he knows he’d be perfectly happy to have this forever.

 

To have Stiles forever.

 

All too soon, they’re on campus grounds again, and Stiles is pulling away.  Peter almost doesn’t let him go.

 

“I don’t have class tomorrow,” Stiles speaks up abruptly, eyes intent on Peter’s.  “I’m free all day.”

 

“Are you?”  Peter gauges him carefully before pressing on, a slow smile curling at his lips.  “Shall I pick you up for breakfast then?  Say, nine?”

 

“Nine,” Stiles nods, quick and decisive like he thinks Peter might take it back.  But then he lifts his chin with something like stubborn determination, and it washes away the anxiety.  “I like Eggs Benedict.”

 

“What a coincidence, I do too,” Peter smirks, drifting forward to close the distance between them.  “And I know a place; it serves the best Eggs Benedict in the city.”

 

For a moment, he contemplates kissing the boy.  Stiles is right there, amber eyes at half-mast, standing his ground so temptingly close.  But it’s only been two days, and perhaps that’s still too soon to lay further claim on his soulmate, so in the end, Peter settles for cupping a hand under Stiles’ jaw and smudging a possessive thumb over one cheekbone – the same one Erica kissed, Peter may or may not remember – before politely withdrawing.

 

“You had a bit of lipstick left there,” Peter explains, smiling innocently.

 

Stiles’ blinks rapidly three times before snorting.  “Oh I bet, creeper.”

 

He half-turns away, humour lightening his steps.  “See you tomorrow then.  And I still expect my daily coffee intake.”

 

He waves a hand over his shoulder before heading for the door.  Peter waits until he’s inside and out of sight before turning in the direction of his own apartment.

 

* * *

 

 

Laura’s waiting up for him when he gets back.

 

“You’re smiling,” She observes, astonishment evident in her raised eyebrows and tone of voice.

 

Derek is already in bed, and Peter can mostly tolerate Laura even on bad days, mostly because she’s smart enough to stay away from him when he’s verbally attacking everyone within earshot.

 

Tonight has been overall very good to him so his mood isn’t soured by the reminder of his niece and nephew still intruding in his home, and he doesn’t bite Laura’s head off.

 

“So I am,” Peter agrees mildly, locking the door behind him.  “Your ability to state the obvious is still unrivalled, Laura.  Congratulations.”

 

He sweeps past her before she can reply, climbing the stairs and not stopping until he’s safe in the privacy of his own bedroom.

 

His smile falters a little when he feels his legs twinge, and he rubs at one knee after stripping off his coat and easing himself down onto his bed.  His joints will probably ache tomorrow but he has Stiles to look forward to, and he isn’t about to let some pain stand in the way of an entire day with his soulmate.

 

He already has a few ideas of where to take Stiles after breakfast.  The boy’s mentioned never having been to the California State Library before despite attending Stanford and growing up in Beacon Hills, which is just sad, so that will be their first stop.  They’ll have to go by car, and even then, it will take a good two hours, but knowing Stiles, it will be worth it.  Even better, Peter will enjoy himself too.  If anything, he’ll have to drag Stiles out of there after a few hours or they might end up spending the rest of the day with their respective noses stuck in a book, and while that wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen, Peter is fully planning on taking Stiles to dinner as well.

 

He struggles back onto his feet, shedding his shirt as he heads to his bathroom for a shower.  His reflection in the mirror flashes an ugly patch of scars at him before he can turn his back on it completely.

 

He puts it out of his mind.  It isn’t as if Stiles will see them anytime soon anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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